Читать книгу Sorry Time - Anthony Maguire - Страница 11

ABDUL WALKED over to the stranded ute, limping slightly as he favoured his injured foot, which thankfully was starting to feel a bit better. He could place more weight on it now. The Tea Tree oil he’d rubbed into the puncture had eased the swelling.

He got into the driver’s seat and flicked the headlights once, twice, then a third time. After pausing for ten seconds, he repeated the exercise. He reflected, not for the first time, that his younger brother was a major worry and had been since he was a toddler, when he used to tear the wings off the flies trapped against a French door at the back of the family home. Watching them crawling around like flightless beetles on the floor, Ali would laugh with delight in the way another, normal three-year-old might chortle at the antics of The Wiggles.

Leaving the cabin of the car, Abdul helped himself to a Crown Lager from one of two drinks eskies they’d brought, along with a single cooler for food. He returned to the camping chair he’d set up in a bare patch of dirt. The storm was much closer now, a churning tsunami of dark cloud straddling the horizon. It promised untold mayhem when it arrived. In the middle there was a funnel, black as coal, reaching down to earth. Every few seconds, this eye of the storm would light up as lightning flickered inside it. The wind was picking up. Abdul was wearing open sandals and he could feel wind-borne grit on his feet and ankles. Definitely not a night to be sleeping in a tent, he thought to himself. Nor did he relish the thought of sheltering from the tempest alongside Ali in the cabin of the ute.

Ali gibbered and screamed in his sleep. He’d done so all his life. In their childhood Abdul had shared a bedroom with Ali. Almost every night, he had found himself being jolted from his slumbers by Ali giving vent to bloodcurdling screams and yelling out things like ‘I’m gonna kill ya!’

Their parents had tried putting Ali on various tranquillizers before he went to bed but for some reason the medication only made his nocturnal outbursts more intense. Now, of course, Ali was taking his own medication – crystal meth. And that didn’t help either. During the current shooting trip, he’d heard loud shouts and groans coming from Ali’s tent in the early hours. Abdul had started pitching his own tent further away, but still he’d been woken by his brother’s nightmares.

Yes, Ali was a major worry.

Ali staggered out of the house. He was panting. His eyes were wild and unfocused. His T-shirt was splashed with red stains. He ran around the building and into the gloomy yard behind the house. Here he stopped for a few seconds to work out the direction back to Abdul and the car. No flashing headlights, but his brother had said he was going to flick them on every ten minutes. He glanced furtively over his shoulder. Then he set off into the scrub, moving at a half-run.

As he fled into the gloom, Ali’s face wore an expression of abject self-pity, mouth turned down at the sides and eyebrows creased together. It was her fault, he thought. The black bitch. He broke through a low patch of bushes with thin, sharp-tipped leaves that stabbed through the legs of his thin camouflage pants like little needles. But Ali was oblivious to the pain as he thought, Yes, the black bitch made me do it. Made me do it because she laughed at me.

While methamphetamine can temporarily endow people with super strength, it can have a reverse effect on the male member, causing erectile dysfunction. After he’d toiled away, attempting to achieve penetration with his flaccid member, she’d given a snort of laughter. That’s what it had sounded like, anyway, although thinking about it now it was strange how she had tears running down her face at the time. No, what she was doing was crying with laughter, yes that’s right, crying tears of mirth, laughing at his impotence. So he’d cut her throat.

Mulga branches raked Ali’s chest and arms but he barely noticed as he blundered through the scrub. He didn’t know if he was going in the right direction for Abdul and the ute, all he knew was that he was heading away from the lights of the houses. His body was suddenly racked by a sob. He’d really fucked up this time. Fucked up big time. How were he and Abdul going to get out of this place? He wondered if he should turn back, try and steal a car. But at any moment someone could find the girl’s body.

Abdul would know what to do. He always knew what to do. Just then Ali saw a pair of headlights flashing on and off three times. He changed direction and stepped up his pace, crashing through a patch of waist-high bushes as he tried to keep on a straight bearing.

The music recital beside the fire pit had ended. Chaseling was feeling sleepy, reclining on his side as he watched the storm getting closer. He heard a man approaching, greeting people in a booming, authoritative voice. He looked up and saw, lit up in the moonlight, a white man aged around fifty, clad in khaki shorts, work boots and a Brisbane Broncos jersey. He had a trimmed grey beard and mostly bald head. His eyes had an angry, indignant look. ‘Who the hell are you?’ the man demanded.

Without shifting from his semi-prone position, Chaseling angled his head upwards to look at the man. He could see that this was someone who you needed to pull rank with. ‘Jonathan Chaseling,’ he replied. ‘Doctor Jonathan Chaseling.’ He placed a slight emphasis on the ‘Doctor.’

The man’s expression softened slightly but his tone remained less than cordial as he said, ‘Do you have a permit to visit these lands?’

Chaseling said, ‘Do you mind if I ask, who the hell are you?’

Thunder rumbled discontentedly over the man’s shoulder as he took a few steps closer and held out a large hand. ‘Bruce Fitzpatrick,’ he said. ‘Community general manager. Also run the shop.’

Chaseling sat up and clasped the paw-like, rough-skinned hand, which immediately clenched into a bonecrusher grip. But Chaseling was ready for it, squeezing back with all his might. While his hands were more slender than the other man’s, they were strong. Fitzpatrick frowned as he realised he wasn’t going to leave Chaseling with a bruised set of knuckles. He detached his hand. ‘So do you have a Land Council permit?’

‘I’m afraid not,’ Chaseling said. ‘My car hit a kangaroo and my friends here kindly gave me a lift to this place. I’m headed for Alice Springs.’

Cookie spoke up from the other side of the fire. ‘How’s your wife, Bruce? She better now?’ She was referring to a black eye the administrator’s wife Janine had suffered a week earlier, purportedly from walking into an open door in the dark. The oldest story in the wife beater’s book. Everyone knew Fitzpatrick hit his wife. This was a dry community, with alcohol strictly banned. But Fitzpatrick simply travelled 30 kilometres to a roadhouse on the Stuart Highway and bought his beer there. At home he guzzled it straight out of the big 750ml bottles. And he was a violent drunk. Usually he punched his wife in the chest and upper arms so the bruises didn’t show. He was also careful to dispose of the evidence of his drinking binges – the brown ‘longnecks’ with the green, red and white Victoria Bitter label. He could regularly be seen driving to the outskirts of the community where there were deep drill holes, made by a mining exploration crew. Perfect for disposing of his empties.

Fitzpatrick’s gaze faltered under the penetrating eyes of the Aboriginal woman. He looked down into the fire. ‘Janine is much better, thank you,’ he mumbled.

At that point there was a bloodcurdling shriek from out in the darkness. Cookie and the other people jumped to their feet. Chaseling did the same, a tingle of danger darting up his spine.

A teenage girl with red, black and yellow-beaded dreadlocks ran into the firelight. Her face was streaked with tears. Cookie ran up to the girl and clasped her to her ample bosom.

‘Ruby,’ whispered the girl, ‘she’s dead!’ Then she started wailing. Cookie took up the refrain, giving vent to an agonised cry that burst from the depths of her being. Another woman joined in, and as she wailed she picked up a stone from the ground and struck herself on the forehead. Blood started weeping from the cut she’d made. Chaseling gazed at her, open-mouthed.

Clarrie and Noelie broke into a run. ‘Come with us, Kumina!’ Clarrie shouted over his shoulder. Chaseling got up and ran after them. Fitzpatrick stood irresolute by the fire pit for a few moments before following.

The door of the house was open. Clarrie was first to run inside, closely followed by Noelie, Chaseling and Fitzpatrick.

Ruby lay on the lounge room floor. She was naked from the waist down. Her eyes were already clouding over, staring blindly at the ceiling. Blood had pooled on the floor around her head and shoulders. There was a wicked slash across her throat.

‘I’ll go and call the police on my landline,’ said Fitzpatrick, edging out of the room. They could hear his footsteps running down the wooden steps of the house. Clarrie sank to his knees and hugged the dead girl. He wept. Ruby was his cousin.

Chaseling pulled a blanket off the couch. Clarrie moved aside to let him drape it over Ruby’s body while leaving her face uncovered. The edge of the rug went up to her chin, obscuring the gaping throat wound. Chaseling said, ‘I think we should close her eyes.’

Clarrie nodded. His tears were dripping onto the dead girl’s face. Chaseling knelt down beside him and pulled Ruby’s eyelids down, holding them in place for a few seconds. When he took his hands away, they remained shut. He pulled up the blanket so it covered her face. Then Clarrie hugged her again. ‘Cuz!’ Sobs racked his body.

Noelie was also weeping, tears streaming down his cheeks into his silver whiskers. But alongside his grief, Noelie’s tracking instincts leapt into action. He looked at the crimson foot prints on the scuffed lino. They led away from the body, becoming progressively fainter as they neared the front door. ‘Big, heavy fella,’ Noelie said. ‘Wearing sneakers, Adidas maybe.’ He turned to his son and said something in Pitjantjatjara. Clarrie shakily got to his feet and went into the kitchen. Chaseling heard him rummaging around.

Outside, there was a chorus of wails and shrieks. Chaseling went to the front door and looked out. There was a group of women. All of them had blood on their faces, with the exception of the dreadlocked girl who’d raised the alarm. But as Chaseling stood at the top of the steps, the girl gave a high-pitched, banshee-like screech and headbutted the front wall of the house. Blood gushed from a deep cut in her forehead.

‘Stop!’ Chaseling screamed, running up and putting his hand on the girl’s shoulder. ‘You need stitches on that wound!’

The girl’s response was to grab the neck of her T-shirt and pull violently at it. There was a tearing sound. One of her breasts popped out. She gave another dreadful shriek.

Cookie stepped forward. Her face too was covered in blood. ‘This is what we do when someone dies.’

Noelie emerged from the house carrying a battered old Maglite torch. He glanced at the bloody-faced women and took in the horrified look on Chaseling’s face.

‘It’s Sorry Time,’ Noelie told him. ‘Be like this for days, till the funeral.’

Clarrie followed his father out of the house. He was carrying a slender, rusty-barrelled rifle; Chaseling thought it was probably a .22. Clarrie and his father began walking around the perimeter of the building, Noelie sweeping the torch across the ground in front of them as he looked for the same footprint he’d noticed in the kitchen. As they reached the side of the house, he gave a shout and bent down to look at tracks in the dirt. He said something to his son.

‘Kumina!’ Clarrie shouted. ‘Come with us!’ He and his father ran behind the house.

Chaseling stayed where he was, surrounded by the wailing, bloody-faced women. The idea of tracking a killer through the darkness did not appeal. Better to let the police deal with it. Then he noticed someone was standing beside him. It was the old blind man.

‘Here’s some pituri,’ the old man said, pressing a twist of newspaper into his hand. ‘Now go and help them.’ He nodded towards the back of the house. ‘Quick!’

After a second’s hesitation, Chaseling pocketed the pituri and ran to the edge of the house, where he paused and looked over his shoulder. The old man wasn’t there anymore. The bloody-faced women, led by Cookie, were filing up the front steps, their wailing growing in pitch and tempo. One of them bashed her head against the door frame as she went inside. Chaseling tore his eyes away and ran around down the side of the house. He saw the flickering of a torch a short distance away out in the scrub and ran towards it.

‘What kept you, Kumina?’ Clarrie was following his father, who was walking ahead with the torch, following the killer’s foot prints.

‘Just a bit of good, old-fashioned cowardice,’ Chaseling muttered under his breath.

‘Speak up Kumina, I can’t hear you.’

‘Doesn’t matter.’

Moving in single file, the three pressed deeper and deeper into the sparse scrub. Off to the east, the rumble of thunder was getting louder, the lightning flashes brighter.